Dissolution

I started round at a movement and clutched John Smeaton's sword. A figure was just visible through the mist, standing against the wall.

'Who's there?' I called sharply.

Brother Guy stepped forward, his hood raised over his dark face. 'Master Shardlake,' he said in his lisping accent. 'So you are back?'

'What are you doing, Brother, standing there in the dark?'

'I wanted some air. I have spent the day with old Brother Paul. He died an hour ago.' He crossed himself.

'I am sorry.'

'His time had come. At the end he seemed back in his childhood. He spoke of your civil wars last century, York and Lancaster. He saw old King Henry VI led drooling through the streets of London at his restoration.'

'We have a strong king now.'

'No one could doubt that.'

'I hear Jerome has escaped.'

'Yes, his keeper left his door unlocked. But they will find him, even in a place so large as this. He's in no condition to hide out. Poor man, he is weaker than he seems, a night out will do him no good.'

'He is mad. He could be dangerous.'

'The servants have no mind on their duties now. The brothers too, they're all worrying what will become of them.'

'Is Alice safe?'

'Yes, quite safe. She and I have been working hard. Now the weather is breaking everyone is coming down with fevers. It is those foul misty humours from the marsh.'

'Tell me, Brother, were you ever in Toledo?'

He shrugged. 'When I was little our family moved from town to town. We did not reach safety in France till I was twelve. Yes, I remember we were in Toledo for a while. I remember a great castle, the sound of iron being beaten in what seemed a thousand workshops.'

'Did you ever meet an Englishman there?'

'An Englishman? I don't remember. Not that it would have been unusual in those days, there were many Englishmen in Spain then. There are none now, of course.'

'No, Spain has become our enemy.' I stepped closer and looked deep into his brown eyes, but they were unfathomable. I hitched up my coat. 'I must leave you now, Brother.'

'Will you want your room at the infirmary?'

'We shall see. But have it warmed. Goodnight.'

I left him and walked off towards the abbot's house. Passing the outbuildings I cast nervous glances into the shadows, looking for the white glimmer of a Carthusian robe. What, now, did Jerome mean to do?

* * *

The old servant answered my knock. He told me Abbot Fabian was at home, in conference with the prior, and Master Mark was in his room. He led me upstairs to Goodhaps's old chamber, empty now of bottles and the smell of the unwashed old man. Mark was working at the table, where a pile of letters lay spread out. I noticed his hair was growing long; he would have to visit the barber in London if he was to be fashionable again.

His greeting was brief, his eyes cold and watchful. I had little doubt he had probably spent as much as he could of the last few days with Alice.

'Looking over the abbot's correspondence?'

'Yes, sir. It all seems routine.' He eyed me carefully. 'How did things go in London? Did you find out about the sword?'

'Some clues. I have made some more enquiries and await a messenger from London. At least Lord Cromwell seems unworried about letters from Jerome reaching the Seymours. But I hear he has escaped.'

'The prior has been searching up and down with some of the younger monks. I helped yesterday for a while, but we found no trace. The prior is sore angry.'

'I can imagine. And what of these rumours the monasteries are going down?'

'Apparently a man from Lewes was at the inn saying the great priory has surrendered.'

'Cromwell said that was about to happen. He's probably sending agents round the country to spread the news, to put the other houses in fear. But rumours flying around are the last thing I want now. I'll have to try and reassure the abbot, get him to believe there's a chance Scarnsea can stay open, just for now.' The coldness in Mark's look intensified; he did not like the lie. I remembered Joan's words about him being too idealistic for this world.

'I have had a letter from home,' I told him. 'The harvest was poor, I'm afraid. Your father says he hopes the monasteries will go down, that'll bring more work to Augmentations.' Mark did not reply, only met my eyes with a chill, unhappy gaze.

'I'm going down to the abbot,' I told him. 'Stay here for now.'

* * *

Abbot Fabian sat facing the prior across his desk. They looked as though they had been there some time. Abbot Fabian's face was more haggard than ever; Prior Mortimus's face was red, a mask of anger. They both rose to their feet at my entrance. 'Master Shardlake, sir, welcome back,' the abbot said. 'Was your journey successful?'

'Insofar as Lord Cromwell is unconcerned about any correspondence Jerome may have sent. But I hear the rogue has escaped.'

'I've turned the place upside down looking for the old bastard,' Prior Mortimus said. 'I don't know what hole he's got into, but he can't have got over the wall or past Bugge. He's here somewhere.'

'With what purpose in mind, I wonder.'

The abbot shook his head. 'That is what we have been debating, sir. Maybe he awaits an opportunity to escape. Brother Guy believes in his state of health he will not last long in the cold, without food.'

'Or maybe he awaits the chance to do someone a mischief. Me, for example.'

'I pray not,' the abbot said.

'I have told Bugge no one is to leave the precinct without my permission for the next day or so. See the brothers are told.'

'Why, sir?'

'A precaution. Now, I hear there are rumours from Lewes and everyone is saying Scarnsea will go down next.'

'You as much as told me so yourself,' the abbot said with a sigh.

I inclined my head. 'From my talks with Lord Cromwell, I gather nothing is certain now. I may have been hasty.' I felt a stab of guilt, lying to them. But it was necessary. There was one I did not wish scared into precipitate action.

Abbot Fabian's face lit up and a spark of hope crept into the prior's eyes.

'Then we won't be put down?' the abbot asked. 'There is hope?'

'Let us say talk of dissolution is premature and should be discouraged.'

The abbot leaned forward eagerly. 'Perhaps I should address the monks at supper. It is due in a half-hour. I could say that – that there are no plans to close us down?'

'That would be a good idea.'

'Ye'd better prepare something,' the prior said.

'Yes, of course.' The abbot reached for quill and paper. My eyes were drawn to the monastery seal, still at his elbow.

'Tell me, my lord, do you normally keep the door of this room unlocked?'

He looked up, surprised. 'Yes.'

'Is that wise? Could not someone come in here, unseen, and put the monastery seal on any document they chose?'

He stared at me blankly. 'But there are always servants in attendance. No one is allowed just to walk in.'

'No one?'

'No one but the obedentiaries.'

'Of course. Very well, I will leave you. Until supper.'

* * *

Once again I watched the monks filing into the refectory. I remembered my first night there; Simon Whelplay in his pointed cap standing by the window, shivering as the snow fell outside. Tonight through that window I could see water dripping from shrinking icicles, black patches in the melting snow where ruts were turning into tiny streams.